The Execution of the Earl of Essex
by rhododendron
Summary: One-shot, in which Dean visits his brother and Sam is beheaded. Rated T because Dean swears like a trucker.


**The Execution of the Earl of Essex, or How Sam Winchester Grew A Pair**

reviews are appreciated.

Dean fidgeted where he sat in the far back of the auditorium. The California air seemed stifling in the small room; he leaned back, smoothed his sweaty palms over his jeans. The chair squeaked. Fucking typical, it reminded him of high school and stupid, pointless assemblies. The goddamn seats _always _squeaked. He shot a quick look to his left and right. Two girls in long skirts and sandals chatted at an incomprehensible speed next to him. On the other side, a tall, skinny kid dressed completely in black sat straight upright, eyes shut and breathing slowly. He could have been asleep. Dean fought the urge to bolt to his feet, push past the girls, and make a break for it.

Dean Winchester hunted demons.  
Dean Winchester killed dead things.

Dean Winchester did _not _go to his dweeb little brother's stupid school plays. Especially when aforesaid little brother had left _him _for _college_.  
Then the curtain raised, and he had no chance anymore. Sleeping Kid had snapped awake at the first rustle of velvet, and the two girls had simultaneously swiveled, shut their mouths, and leaned forward, like they were about to see the most amazing thing of their lives. Which was total bull, Dean decided, because there was _no way_ Lynyrd Skynyrd was going to show up at a hippie-yuppie joint like this.  
The play was some kind of historical deal, but Dean was too busy scanning every single one of the actors for Sam's face to really pay much attention. He had an irrational fear that Sam would be completely unrecognizable, that he would have changed completely in the year and a half they'd been apart. Dean hadn't thought far enough into the future to come up with a game plan for what would happen after the play, and he was beginning to panic.

He paid a little more attention when the hot chick came on- she was supposed to be Queen Anne or Elizabeth or something, and she was being harassed by one of her guards, a shifty-looking kid with the shoulders of a football player.

And then Sam came on, and Dean's heart stopped. He looked- the same. Longer hair, & that ridiculous costume on, but Sam, Sammy-  
He was talking to the hot chick, looking deeply into her eyes, reaching a hand out tentatively to touch her blonde hair. Dean had forgotten how _good _Sammy was, but it didn't matter, because he was still Sammy and Dean couldn't take his eyes off him.

The play was painfully long; Dean wasn't sure if he wanted it to end immediately or continue forever, because the end of the play meant talking to Sam, and he didn't know if that was a good thing or not. Sam was beheaded, in an artistically-done scene behind a sheer veil, and the choice was made for him when the curtain swept shut and the room exploded in applause. He joined in unconsciously, forcing himself to his feet, moving to the exit and then to the hall and then through the door marked "dressing room." He'd intended to just check in, see the play and make sure that Sam was doing okay. Get in, get out, get it over with. Except now that he was here, there was no way he could leave without talking to him.  
The room behind the door was fairly small, and crowded with actors and stagehands and well-wishers all talking at once. He shouldered his way to the other end of it, where he could see Sammy's too-tall figure struggling to extricate itself from a complicated-looking waistcoat. Without thinking, he grabbed one sleeve of it and pulled, letting the garment slip free.

"Thanks," Sam said breathlessly, turning to face him. He froze.  
"Hey, Sammy."  
"Dean. Jesus. Hey." They stood there awkwardly, Sam's body tense and Dean's fingers tangling themselves in the waistcoat he still held.  
"What're you-"  
"I just-" They stopped short. "You first," Dean said.  
"Ah, what are you doing here, Dean? Not that it's not great to see you, but-"  
"I was in the area," he shrugged. "Figured I'd stop by and see how you were doing. Didn't think you'd be doing this, but-" Sam didn't return his half-smile.  
A girl came up behind Sam and slipped her arm around his waist.  
"The hot chick," Dean said.  
"Sorry?" she asked, frowning at him.  
"I said, ah, wow, you were great."  
"Thanks," she said, with a stare that said she'd heard him perfectly clearly the first time. Sam was looking incredibly uncomfortable. "I'm Jess." Dean glanced at Sam, who didn't appear to be capable of making introductions.  
"Dean," he said, extending his hand. "It's just swell to meet you, Tess."  
"Jess."  
"Right. So, Sam, uh, how are you doing?" Silence. "Good grades, making friends, all that?" Sam stared at him. "Okay. So, I'll just be going. It was nice seeing you again, bro-"  
Sam grabbed his arm the same instant Jess blurted, "He's your _brother_?"  
"Where are you going?" Sam asked.  
"Look, Sammy, it's obvious you don't want me around."  
"_I_ don't want _you _around? I wasn't the one doing the disowning last time I saw you, Dean."  
"Really, that's funny, cause I seem to remember you shouting something about never wanting to see us again." Dean's voice had raised to counter Sam's.  
"That was Dad, not you, Dean."  
"It's the same thing, Sam."  
"No it's fucking not, okay, and if you understood that I wouldn't have had to fucking leave."  
"I would be lucky to be half as good as Dad, and if you'd just _grow up_ for once you'd know it." Sam looked at him for a long moment before reaching back and punching him, hard, in the mouth. Dean swung back without thinking, had time to realize that the swing didn't connect before Sam's palm caught his fist and twisted jarringly. He struck out with his foot, snapping sideways, getting in a good kick to Sam's knee and making him buckle, and then they were on the floor, rolling over one another and costumes and stage props. People were trying to get out of their way, moving to the sides of the room.  
"This is your fault," he was shouting at Sam.  
"You have no idea," Sam hissed back.  
"Oh, I really think I do," he gritted out, feeling blood in his mouth.  
"I missed you so fucking much," Sammy said, and Dean stopped mid-swing. His necklace hung above his shirt; Sam's eyes flickered to it for a moment before finding Dean's above it, and they stopped there.

"Fuck," Dean said softly, climbed off him, and offered his hand. Sam took it and didn't let go when he was pulled to his feet and pulled into Dean, feeling his brother's arms wrap around him for the first time in years.


End file.
